


Tick

by CandidCantrix



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, ME3 Spoilers, Other, by Big Ben I do mean the London clock tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandidCantrix/pseuds/CandidCantrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Big Ben. A large but primitive timekeeping device, inexplicably celebrated by local inhabitants. For some reason <em>(hypothesis currently unavailable)</em>, it still stood intact, a spire on the horizon, while all around it such noteworthy buildings as the seat of this nation had fallen to to the Reaper's kin."</p>
<p>Originally posted on the Mass Effect kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tick

**Author's Note:**

> A little background: back in 2011 I came across [this post](http://masseffectkink.livejournal.com/1866.html?thread=2754890#t2754890) requesting anyone/Big Ben, aka the unnamed sniper in the Mass Effect trailer. Someone thought the requester had meant the clock tower, and I decided to write it, because I'm hilarious.
> 
> After that single meme fill I proceeded to finish nothing for years until 2015, when I made a New Year's Resolution to post a new fic every month. April's is running away with me however, so instead I decided to clean up and post this. You're welcome.
> 
> (Thanks to Brosencrantz for the beta!)

On the eighth day of the invasion, following a week of missiles, riots and destruction, a fire broke out on the west side of London. It managed to obliterate what little they’d saved. The inferno spread through the city, tongues of flame flickering across the windows of any building that had been left standing, and completely consumed the wreckage. The surviving humans were sent scattering into the streets, but many never made it out of the flames: some fell choking on the smoke; others were crushed under falling concrete; and many were trampled to death as they battled their way to the exits.

_Foolish_ , thought the Reaper, observing the panic. According to its extranet sources, a similar fire had occurred in 1666, so the situation was hardly atypical. Yet it seemed that the humans had prepared no suitable counter-measures in case of a second occurrence, or even followed any sort of procedure. They simply swarmed out of the rubble and charged, as one, for the river, where the squealing mass of flesh tumbled into the water, and the corpses and debris already drifting downriver bobbed aside in their wake. _Their actions are irrelevant_. Death was inevitable, whatever form it took.

The humans that fled from the Reaper itself were equally ignorant. Those that found themselves under its shadow tended to scream, and scurried to hide in crevices, holes, shelters. But the Reaper ignored them, and carried on its way. They would be duly processed. Others of its kind would send indoctrinated into the dark places to draw out these survivors, or destroy them from orbit. But for now, the humans were not its concern.

Following the interruption of data from Nazara, this particular Reaper had been charged with scanning the surroundings, and collating any notable data with extranet sources. It was useful to possess knowledge of local landmarks and likely hiding places for organics, as well as any resources suitable for harvesting. All processes within the Reaper agreed that it was a most important task. It had been carrying it out with haste, waving an infra-red beam wildly in one direction and a detailed scan process in the other, trying to gather as much as possible before all was extinguished.

It seemed increasingly impossible, however, as the Reaper flew over more and more buildings that had already been flattened to the foundations. There was to be no recovery of data without subtle sifting later on. Its inner processes buzzed and grated at the waste – while eradication was indeed necessary, it seemed alone in thinking that it would be more conducive to gather information first– but in the end it settled for marking certain locations for review, and moved on.

Its sensors immediately refocused, therefore, when it finally came across a local landmark that had somehow escaped both fire and weapons unscathed. The Reaper set about running extranet searches, trying to learn its significance. _Big Ben_. A large but primitive timekeeping device, inexplicably celebrated by local inhabitants. For some reason ( _hypothesis currently unavailable)_ , it still stood intact, a spire on the horizon, while all around it such noteworthy buildings as the seat of this nation had fallen to its kin.

It was not the first such device that the Reaper had observed. Among all previously eradicated civilisations, 97.3% had possessed similar large clocks, commonly established in prominent locations. But although it had noted the trend, in truth it found the clocks beneath its understanding. It was difficult for Reapers to comprehend the necessity of a device that measured seconds and hours. For them, communication was processed in microseconds, thoughts even quicker, while any important action was given the space of centuries. Measuring anything in between was meaningless.

Others might have discarded this _Big Ben_ as an insignificant relic of a near-dead civilisation, but the Reaper found itself compelled to perform further analysis. Compared with the destroyers and builders of its kind, it was far more interested in the details of what they were eliminating. Lack of data frequently left it…unsatisfied.

The Reaper descended, examining the clock tower first with visual sensors, then a with probing claw. It recoiled as the claw scraped against the stonework. It would not do to render the structure unfit for analysis. True, it had already somehow survived the surrounding destruction, but the Reaper could still make out the limits of its construction. The building materials were fragile, and the centre hollow. It was also not as unscathed as it had seemed at first. The frame of the clock was missing several shards of glass. An impractical building material at best, and the Reaper could not find a logical reason for its inclusion in construction.

Still, this was evidence that the clock had, in fact, been the target of weapons fire or a similar blast. Its survival could even be said to be commendable when measured against humanity’s other miniscule accomplishments, if meaningless.

The Reaper sent out a low pulse of sound, trying to judge the extent of the damage from the vibrations, but got an unexpected response. An answering vibration, from within the tower. The noise, sharp and surprising, echoed back through its auditory sensors. The feedback was intriguing.

Scanning through extranet data, it discovered the source was something known as a bell. An instrument. The Reapers had encountered music in various organic civilisations, and had judged it to be without practical use, another quirk of their primitive nature. Bells, however, were apparently used for the more logical purpose of widespread communications _(alarms_ ), in this case, sounding the time.

This raised the question of why the humans would resort to such primitive technology in the place of superior advancements. Initially, it was prepared to dismiss the matter with its standard response: _organic: incomprehensible_. But as the Reaper sent more pulses through the clock tower, its auditory receptors throbbing with the hum of the bell, it suddenly came upon another theory. The clock’s function, for whatever reason, was to broadcast time to the people of the city. It did so. The display was crude, but understandable; the glass let through internal illumination. The bell (now clanging from the constant probing) was sufficient to be heard and acknowledged by all. The device lacked elegance, but not function.

The Reapers themselves were ancient technology, and the tools they used had not undergone improvements in several millennia. While comparing the feeble machinations of a juvenile organic species to their own construction was obviously ridiculous (several processes inside the Reaper almost aborted analysis at the thought), it could certainly perceive the logic in an unchanged yet perfect machine. The Reaper regarded Big Ben, once more touching it with a claw, and it _approved_.

But what if such a structure could be improved? There was one species that could bring true perfection to the fumbling attempts of organics.

The clock could be broken. All imperfections erased. Then rebuilt. Or – and the Reaper inadvertently sent a strong pulse through the bell, causing both tower and Reaper to shiver with the vibration – or, it could be brought to ascension.

It could be useful.

Raw materials were necessary, and the source of those materials was irrelevant. The glass would be shattered. The stone ripped away. The metal, however, inlaid in digits and hands, could be salvaged.

Iron was an inefficient metal, subject to rust and other weaknesses. There were approximately 300 other metals more suited to construction. But it could form part of an alloy. The Reaper began running simulations, conjuring up images of metal freed from its construct of bricks and glass, torn from the shards of its primitive frame. The image kicked more processes into overdrive. It could drag the giant hands away into space, splintering – it could carefully gouge out every scrap of iron –

A minor process interrupted the simulation. There was a conflict, it said. Its role was to identify raw materials for collation, not to facilitate the process of collection.

Irrelevant, it decided. One of its kind would transport the hands, and if it were to cast itself in the role –

It would take the iron to Harbinger, it decided, overruling processes that argued for more suitable choices. It would take the iron to Harbinger, who was known to suffer from sentiment.

The continued conflicts were causing sparks to break out through the Reaper’s frame, trembling with the effort of upholding such error-ridden calculations. Its mind buzzed with the million possibilities. Its joints groaned as the claw on the clock tightened almost imperceptibly.

It would take the iron to Harbinger, and they would melt it down – _Harbinger would not concern itself with such things_ – they would melt it down, and add raw metals from other sources. It would locate suitable ones – _a waste of time, inefficient_ – and they would create alloys. It dove deeper into the simulation, feeling the heat of the forge on its frame, as it watched the hands become a molten pool – _it was not its duty to watch construction_ –

It would watch. The iron would disappear in the glow of the forge, melting away to be processed. It would be combined. Cooled. Forged into a skeleton of strengthened steel, so much greater than it was before, and raised to the level of a Reaper.

And then, thought the Reaper, as the simulation shuddered through its frame, projecting itself onto the building where one claw was now hooked into the stone, it would join with Harbinger in the construction of the new Reaper. They would capture Shepard, and melt her down – _in the same forge as the clock, no, impossible_ – and a million nanobots would process her flesh. They would pour her essence into the core of the new Reaper, into its organic heart. And around the heart would be a frame constructed from the essence of the two hands of Big Ben, an invincible skeleton.

And occasionally, the Reaper imagined, abandoning itself completely to error, the hands would _tick –_

The growing conflicts exploded in a million runtime errors, shuddering, groaning, sparking along its frame, overheating core processes. The claw spasmed into the side of the clock with the crunch of stone, as a huge burst of static whited out its mind.

The Reaper waited for 2.2 microseconds, recovering data and smoothing variances, cataloguing damage.

Then it set to work.

 


End file.
